


Collision

by Skittery



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: And somehow this is still kind of fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Violence, M/M, NSFWish, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 02:21:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2252241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittery/pseuds/Skittery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the few seconds before impact, there was nothing else, not anywhere; every aspect of the world paled beside them, the intensity and complete inertial pull of their paths, the drive to make contact, separate from any conscious thought or knowledge or choice.  Then they collided.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collision

In the approximately ten seconds before the collision, there was a feeling of time slowing. Of not quite a pause as it hung in the air between them, like suddenly all of the molecules in the air, stable only a moment before, had found themselves suddenly afloat in a viscous liquid instead of empty space. In these few seconds, every color seemed to suddenly become brighter, more vivid and pronounced, filling a need for depth that they hadn’t even been aware existed before then, bringing out the watery depths of irises, the contrast of muscles, the translucent droplets of sweat on skin. In the few seconds before impact, there was nothing else, not anywhere; every aspect of the world paled beside them, the intensity and complete inertial pull of their paths, the drive to make contact, separate from any conscious thought or knowledge or choice. Then they collided.

**

Henry couldn’t stop touching it, the dark bruise that sat between his right eye and his jaw, a deep mar against his skin. He touched it gingerly, desperately, the way a newlywed touches a ring, with disbelief and awe and a sort of underlying sadness that can’t entirely be explained. It was painful, but he’s had worse, and besides, the younger boys saw a bruise as a sort of badge of honor, which helped lessen the pain.

Henry didn’t often get into fights; he tended to be the one who held back and let the mouthier boys pick the battles. He knew he came off a little different sometimes, a little softer around the edges, but Henry didn’t mind. He kept to himself and did his work and, unlike some, he didn’t go looking for trouble. 

Of course, it wasn’t easy, because nothing was, and all of them had learned that at an early age. Trouble always found you, when you lived by the stones beneath your feet and the thin pages of the paper.

At least for Henry, it was trouble. For Morris Delancey, it was nothing. The day was too long, the sun too hot, the boredom itching inside him; it was swatting bothersome flies just because he could.

Morris had followed them, a small crowd, as they went looking for something to call dinner, the hot sun of the day sinking gratefully lower and lower beneath the crooked skyline of the city. Henry could feel him behind them, a challenge beneath every footfall of his boots; could imagine the smirk on his face as his mind searched for the perfect interruption.

When he finally decided to catch up and halt them, on a street filled with dust and closed doors and not much else, Henry intended to walk away, to let the others have it out. But something stopped him, and it couldn’t entirely be attributed to Morris’s unoriginal jabs at their collective mothers, but it was something in the air: a pull, a breeze, a tone heard only by Henry, ringing in his ears like an insistent, music-less bell. He turned and ran the other way. 

Henry ran past them and straight into Morris, who was ready for him, almost like he’d been expecting it, this out of character snap, his fist raised. Henry ran directly at him, a buzzing in his veins and heat rushing through him, his feet hitting the ground like hammers, a tiny voice in the back of his mind panicking, trying to reel him in unheard. He was like the bull in an arena, his eyes closed to everything except Morris, the clearest image in a blurry tableau. 

And while one part of Henry’s brain was trying to stop him, another was noticing things about Morris. About his usually mocking smile that seemed a little less insincere, about his tense stance, and about the way his clothing draped across him, the way his eyes watched Henry’s approach unblinking, the way he swiftly moistened his lips in anticipation. Henry noticed, and then there was no hope of turning back. Somewhere far off he heard other boys yelling (encouragement? warning?), but it was too late; his cheek collided with Morris’s fist, sending sparks through Henry’s entire body. Henry hit the ground.

**

The day after, it hung in the air between them. Lined up by the wall in dim early morning light, waiting for work to begin, the cooler air of the night lingering for a few more moments before it gave way to the day’s heat. One on each side of the counter, miles of space in between, enough that no one else seemed to notice the tension held taut in that space, like clenched teeth. Oceans of space, but not enough. Not enough to ignore how his eyes kept finding their way back, if only for one intense moment. Not enough to dismiss the way he fingered the bruise, like it was something precious. Not enough for them to prevent catching each other’s glance like a thump to the stomach, or to not see the way he bit his lip, or the way he ignored the idle talk of those around him. Completely out of nowhere, or so it seemed, it hung in the air.

Even so, the accustomed silence pervaded. The steady march that brought them closer and closer proceeding as normal, as if nothing had changed. And as the distance shrunk, the glances become more infrequent, the laughter from those nearby harder to ignore. And if, when he collected his paper, both of their hands simultaneously clutching the thin ink, it took a second too long to let go, did anyone notice? And if the laughter that accompanied his nervous start as Oscar cracked his knuckles menacingly was a little forced, did it seem so to anyone else? 

Both of them later would ask, did something seem different today? A little off? But the replies were laughter, a friendly punch to the shoulder, a clap on the back; better get some food in ya, huh? You feelin’ all right?

And they would both realize that the feeling that followed them all day into the night was that feeling of being watched as you turn away.

**

The darkness spread through the room, thick and tangible, cut by only a vague glimmer from the sliver of moon hanging outside the loosely shuttered window, heavy enough that Morris almost felt he could reach out and grab it if he tried. Morris knew that it was a windfall, the dark night, protective and enshrouding, but he wanted it to be brighter; he wanted to see.

As it was, the room was just a maze of shadows. The shadow of a chair, of a table, of a stool, of the window shutters falling across the floor. Even their shirts, torn off far more quickly than he had anticipated, were just a shadow piled against the floor. 

Morris wasn’t sure how it had happened, although at the same time he knew exactly, could pinpoint the precise moment when boredom turned suddenly to interest, when he started to feel his heart speed up before the usual fight adrenaline kicked in, something else entirely. But here, this moment, Morris couldn’t remember how they had reached it. All he knew was that it was real: the rough paint of the wall pressed up against the bare skin of his back; the small hands, one holding his wrist tight against his side and the other moving freely over his skin in the darkness; the lips that were softer than he expected, but still rough and insistent against his own; the sharp intakes of breath and quiet sighs against each other that sounded to Morris like a song the same way the noises of a fight always did. All of it was real. And all of it was Henry, with his fading shiner and his apparent meekness that had faded into oblivion the moment that Morris had let him inside and closed the door.

Morris knew that he was risking too much; that they shouldn’t be here, and certainly not after hours; that he should be more grateful that he had this job, especially as it suited his disposition so well. It was the right thing, so he’d always been told: having a job was right, and earning money was right, and making something of himself (so much more than so many other boys his age) was right; his life was right. What was wrong was the way Henry’s mouth had slipped to the space between Morris’s neck and collarbone, finding its mark with purpose even in the darkness of the room.

Morris felt his breath catch in his throat, all thoughts of right and wrong escaping like a leaf on the wind, every nerve in his body tingling. He felt Henry smile against his skin, and his lips began a hastily plotted journey down Morris’s chest. Morris shivered despite the warmth of the night and grabbed Henry’s hair with his free hand, entwining his fingers in it; his other hand, still held tightly captive, clenching into a fist. After a moment, he pulled Henry forcibly back up, pressing their lips eagerly together once more, trying to memorize the feel of him as they pushed up against each other. 

Henry pulled back and their eyes met, and Morris thought fleetingly about how Henry’s eyes changed, from fear and ambivalence to heat and hunger. They stared at each other, both breathing hard, faces flushed. Morris tried to push himself away from the wall. He was used to being in charge, his days spent drinking in power and spitting it back at the newsboys, the one who inspired fear, and obedience. But Henry shook his head and pushed back, keeping Morris trapped against the wall; and Morris let him, even though both were aware that under normal circumstances he could easily overpower Henry, he let him keep control, let Henry push him back against the wall and hold him there helpless, breathing hot air into his mouth. 

A pause, the air full of cracking sparks; at any moment, one wrong move and the World would explode into so many stars and flames. In the sliver of moonlight, Morris could see Henry’s face curl into a smile that was almost a smirk, except there was no menace behind it, only raw need.

Henry pulled Morris roughly away from the wall and Morris thought he knew what came next. It was just like a fistfight: get the other guy where you want him, then aim the blow for maximum effect. Morris already felt as though he’d been hit, light-headed, the room spinning just enough to be disorienting, his body alive in ways he didn’t know it could be, sparks and flames and nerves like a web of lightning jumping between them and filling his eyes with stars. He watched as Henry moistened his lips, twisting their bodies so that they would land on the pile of shirts and old papers, his hands crashing into Morris’s chest as he pushed him gently but insistently down to the floor below. Morris hit the ground.

**

In the few moments before the collision, it felt like time slowed. Like every nerve became super charged, so that they could feel every air molecule flowing by, in between and around them and through their tingling bodies. The background faded to grey, and it was all only: hands and fingertips and muscles tensing and relaxing and pupils dilating within their depths and skin and mouths and knuckles. 

In those few seconds, there were no thoughts, only actions, only the sense of an explosion about to occur. In those seconds they were Morris and Henry, two separate entities, on opposite sides of the paper line, on opposite sides of the World. Then they collided.


End file.
